Chrysalis

The beginning of a story starts with a breath,

like how a child starts in the chrysalis,

the cocoon,

the tomb,

surrounded by heartbeat,

born out to the open air,

toddling on the abstract wings muddled with the colors of the two houses that forged them,

just as strong from their borrowed weaknesses,

coasting on blooms,

using the stems as leverage until they are finally able to fly

with knowledge they will land when needed,

they will not yield in their goals,

and they know how to find home,

threading their spider silk with imprints of lessons,

until the wings call home, and they are old now,

and they must, once again, return to the chrysalis, the cocoon, the tomb,

the monarch undoes her Afghan wings,

they lay it on her coffin, an acorn,

that will root her back to the beginning,

in the sanctuary of the tomb,

where she will be held by her Mother Nature

once again.

The story ends

with a closed mouth.